


Put a Price on My Soul

by lamerezouille



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, M/M, Pimp!Draco, Prostitute!Harry, dub-con, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1403989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamerezouille/pseuds/lamerezouille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has become used to being a whore in the crapsack Wizarding World that’s now governed by Voldemort. Everything changes when Malfoy becomes his new pimp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put a Price on My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Notes:** Thanks to I for all of her invaluable input, and to L for her thorough correction. Title from the Ida Maria song _Oh My God_.

The last client of the day is also a new one. He’s bald like an egg, but the hair around his cock is the exact same shade as a cooked carrot. It makes Harry think of Ron, and he regrets it immediately. He never thinks about Ron, nor about anything from his life _before_. At least, he tries not to.

The client hasn’t given Harry his name but Harry prefers that. It means he doesn’t expect Harry to scream it in fear or in pleasure. All he seems to expect of Harry is an arsehole to pump his cock into and a chest to slobber all over. It’s only mildly off-putting, and mostly boring. Without the potion in his veins keeping his cock up and his eyes open, Harry reckons he would fall asleep. The client seems satisfied though, because he finishes halfway through the session with loud grunts of pleasure against Harry’s chest and come spurting all over Harry’s arse and cock.

The client is content enough not to bother with a potion of his own for the rest of his time. He tucks away his cock without wiping the spilled come off and leaves without another glance at Harry. There’s no money on the table near the door when he’s gone, but Harry likes it better this way. Jugson always demands payment upfront to finance the whores’ living expenses and it seems to generally piss him off when Harry’s been “tipped”. Harry doesn’t like it when Jugson is pissed off.

Harry spends the last half-hour of his workday lying on his bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling and his arse dirty, waiting for his erection to fade away. If this client is not a one-off, he’ll be sure not to drink an entire vial the next time. He would have liked being able to sleep a bit before Jugson shows his ugly mug in Harry’s room.

Not that the room is _Harry’s_. Nothing is Harry’s anymore. They stripped him of everything when he went into this _business_. Sometimes knowing that it was actually his choice to sell his dick to the highest bidder is worse than anything he lets clients do to him.

Thirty minutes later, his cock has finally gone soft and Jugson is late. Harry tries not to let himself fall asleep. Counting the flecks of grey on the ceiling without his arsehole full or his cock roughly pumped is surprisingly soothing. The random pattern of dirt in the otherwise white paint is blurry without his glasses and slowly takes the form of what Harry has always imagined nargles look like, and he drifts away without really realizing it.

Sleeping is not as painful as it once was; with the various potions regularly swimming in his bloodstream, Harry never dreams anymore. He imagines it is a little bit like being dead.

~o~

Three knocks on the door and a loud throat-clearing wakes him from his slumber. The throat-clearing is too polite to be Jugson’s and Harry wonders if he didn’t have one more client today after all. If that’s the case, he’ll have to stall, because there’s no potion left and the next delivery is a few hours away.

Harry opens his eyes. He turns his head to the newcomer, and the absence of his glasses has never felt so dire, but there’s nothing to it: they were taken from him years ago. He wishes he had his glasses because he is greeted with a sight he’s not sure he can actually believe. Standing in the doorframe with an uncertain look on a face still as pointy as Harry remembers, is Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy doesn’t look surprised, exactly—if he’s in here, he had to know it was where he would find Harry—but he’s wrong-footed for sure. Harry remembers how a wrong-footed Draco Malfoy used to amuse him, and is surprised to find the corner of his lips turning up at the idea.

Harry is about to comment on Malfoy needing to pay for his arse, to say he has always known Malfoy secretly hero-worshipped him. Even if Malfoy is a client, the fact is that Harry _knows_ him. Harry has known clients before: Adrian Pucey was even a regular a few years back, and Roger Davies has showed up twice in the last few months, but it’s not the same, is it? Harry saw Malfoy trying on robes at Madam Malkin’s when he was an eleven year-old and he saw him quake with fear in front of the Fiendfyre when he was seventeen. Whatever happens in this bed, Harry can’t think of Malfoy as just a _client_ , and he can’t help wanting to throw a barb at him.

He doesn’t though. Just as Harry is opening his mouth to talk, he notices the dull gold of the key clutched between Malfoy’s fingers. Malfoy isn’t a client after all; clients don’t have the key to the room. Harry won’t have to question his non-existent deontology.

‘Where is Jugson?’ Harry asks, sitting up. He feels more alert than he’s been all day.

Malfoy doesn’t answer, but clears his throat again. Harry wonders if maybe Malfoy is here by mistake after all, before he notices Malfoy glancing downwards, and realises what has Malfoy acting so strangely.

‘If a naked cock bothers you so much,’ Harry leers, thrusting his hips a bit, just for the fun of Malfoy’s reaction, ‘maybe you’ve chosen the wrong line of work.’

‘Jugson’s dead,’ Malfoy says flatly, ignoring Harry’s effrontery masterfully.

‘Why?’ Harrys doesn’t ask _how_ because, if Malfoy’s taking Jugson’s place, there’s no doubt he’s the one who’s done the deed. It doesn’t mean he’s done it on his own initiative.

Malfoy finally closes the door behind him. It doesn’t feel as claustrophobic as when Jugson did it, and it might be because of the way Malfoy keep glancing nervously and almost involuntarily at Harry’s cock. Malfoy searches the room for a suitable place to sit for a few seconds, and after a dubious appraisal of the still come-stained bed, conjures a chair. It’s much less ostentatious than Harry would have expected, a simple hard-back wooden chair that doesn’t even look comfortable.

Malfoy sits down and says, ‘It turns out Jugson was keeping some of the Dark Lord’s Galleons for himself.’

‘Oh,’ Harry says evenly. He didn’t expect Malfoy to actually answer him, and never so truthfully, but he can’t say he’s surprised at the news. ‘He stole from us all the time too.’ Harry doesn’t know why he’s said it except perhaps to return Malfoy’s honesty. He doesn’t want to give him ideas though, so he shuts up. No need to tell Malfoy what other kind of liberties Jugson used to take.

Thinking about it now, it’s a feat that Jugson managed to stay alive as long as he did. Jugson might have been their pimp—or _supervisor_ —as his official title stated, but the brothel has always belonged to Voldemort. Jugson behaved like he owned it completely, though. Given Jugson’s proclivities for the pleasures of the flesh, it’s a wonder he got the job in the first place. Harry knows some of the girls spent more time with him than with clients. And Harry himself could have done without Jugson’s visits every night. Good riddance.

‘So, why are you here except to stare at my cock?’ Harry asks because they’ve both been silent too long, and it should feel more awkward than it does. Harry sometimes doesn’t remember how to have a conversation anymore.

Malfoy frowns briefly, but regains his impassive expression. He stands up from his chair, his fists clenched and his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Harry. Within three steps, his long legs have brought him almost nose to nose with Harry.

He’s bending over Harry, his arms bracketing Harry’s shoulders, his breath louder than the tightness around his lips would let one think. Malfoy’s face is still as far from Harry as their position allows, and Harry doesn’t know what to do. All his instincts tell him to slither away, but he’s naked, lying and leaning on his elbows, and he doesn’t want to appear even more vulnerable than he already is. It’s been a while since Harry felt the need to escape so strongly. There is also this very small part of him that wants to get closer, and to find out if Malfoy’s face can ever get un-pinched.

‘I’m here to make you work, Potter,’ Malfoy says simply, his eyes intent and his breath caressing Harry’s face but their skin never touching.

And then the weight of Malfoy’s hands is gone from the mattress, taking most of the warmth pooling in Harry’s chest with it. Malfoy is straightening up and sneering down at Harry, and Harry feels bereft, unfamiliarly so, and he doesn’t know why.

Malfoy leaves the room without another glance at Harry. Harry doesn’t like that he hasn’t taken the trouble to Vanish his bloody chair first. Harry only realises belatedly that his cock is hard. His cock hasn’t been hard without the use of potions for years; Harry didn’t know it was even still possible. He doesn’t touch it though; he closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

~o~

Harry wakes up from the cold. He doesn’t know what time it is. He never really does because there’s no window anywhere in the brothel, and no actual clock either. There is only an hourglass in each room, counting the time until the next client. Harry doesn’t know what time of the day it is for the rest of the world, but he knows he’s got about forty minutes until he’s got to spread his legs again. A glance at the shelf in the corner tells him the potions have been replenished, so that’ll be okay.

Lavender is the only one there when he arrives in the kitchen. She’s retouching her make-up, her eyes fixed on the square-ish piece of mirror propped up against her almost empty glass of orange juice. There’s no coffee left in the pot, but there’s a teapot full and tightly wrapped in a warming charm, so he’ll make do.

Lavender is the only other prostitute in here that he knew beforehand, and they became close, a bit due to their common past and a bit because they often found themselves having breakfast at the same time.

‘What’s new, Lav’?’ Harry asks absently, waiting for his sugar-cube to melt.

‘The same that’s new with everyone, I guess,’ she answers between two swipes of lip-gloss. ‘Azalea said the new pimp visited everybody yesterday, at the end of their shift. Not that it would take much, but he seems less horrible than Jugson so far.’ Harry understands it as _He didn’t insist on tasting the merchandise like Jugson did_ , but doesn’t let relief or hope for a better situation invade him. The devil you know and all that rot. ‘How weird is it that it’s someone our age?’ Lavender asks, her concentration still wholly on her reflection.

‘Less weird than the fact that it’s someone we actually know.’

Harry sits at the table and Lavender finally glances at him, something a bit scornful in her eyes. Lavender doesn’t actually know Draco Malfoy, not as Harry does, at least. She dismisses his remark with a smack of her lips and goes on, as if he’s said nothing. ‘It’s weird that they sent someone prettier than half of us combined. I almost thought he was a new recruit who had entered the wrong room when he showed up. I know a lot of clients who would pay more than they do for me for a pretty face like his.’

She’s finished with her makeup and is sliding her mirror back inside her dressing gown pocket with a slight pout. Harry knows what the makeup is hiding.

‘You’re prettier than—’ he starts, but she cuts him off with a glare. She brings her cutlery to the self-washing sink with her shoulders set tighter than they were a few seconds ago and Harry feels a bit guilty for causing it, but he can’t help wanting to go further on the subject. ‘If you tell me what time this arsehole has his session, I could maybe come by your room, scare him a bit…’

He trails off, and she doesn’t even bother protesting his stupid idea, because scaring someone off is not something Harry has been able to do for a long time. It’s impossible for anyone to leave their room between clients anyway, and even harder to go to someone else’s. The wizard who laid the spells on the brothel when they built it certainly knew what they were doing.

‘You’re cute, Harry,’ Lavender says as she walks to him. ‘Much too cute for a place like this.’

She kisses him on the cheek and rubs the spot with her thumb right away. Harry smiles up at her in thanks, but she doesn’t answer it. She ruffles his hair a bit and leaves the kitchen. Harry finishes his tea and leaves too.

~o~

The first client of the day is a woman.

Harry hates female clients. They’re not that different from the men; some are boring, some too forceful, some sickeningly sweet. What Harry hates about female clients isn’t related to what they do or don’t do at all. He hates them because the first and only time he had sex outside the brothel, it was with a woman. Ginny was soft and fiery at the same time, and it may not have been great sex—they’d both been virgins after all—but it was sex that _meant_ something. Female clients remind Harry what sex was like _before_. It reminds him of what sex could be like. It reminds him of what he doesn’t have anymore.

Harry thinks he’s already seen her two or three times but isn’t sure. Last time was maybe a couple weeks ago, which means that since then more genitals have encountered his than he cares to count. She’s got long grey hair and a large stomach, and she sits on his face without warning. He chokes a bit at first, but it’s more from surprise than anything else. After that, it’s just routine.

There are eight other clients that day, maybe ten. Harry doesn’t know and doesn’t care enough to count. The day passes in a blur and then the top half of the hourglass is empty and there is no potion left on the shelf. There is a pile of gold on the table and Harry feels his stomach tighten instinctively before remembering that Jugson is not in charge anymore, and that he’s got no idea what Malfoy’s policy on tips is going to be.

He doesn’t have long to wait to discover it: Malfoy walks in a few minutes later. He doesn’t even glance at the gold.

Malfoy’s chair from yesterday is still there, but he doesn’t sit. He’s standing in the middle of the room, his eyes roaming over Harry’s body, but not the way people usually do when Harry’s naked. Malfoy is frowning and Harry almost feels self-conscious about it. He hates it. He’s worked too hard not to feel self-conscious about anything anymore.

‘You haven’t taken your lunch break,’ Malfoy says. Harry feels like he is being scolded, but Malfoy’s face is impassive. Harry doesn’t remember he was supposed to have a lunch break. ‘Have you eaten anything today?’

‘Why? You scared I’ll turn into damaged goods?’ Harry is looking at the ceiling, and it’s so easy antagonising Malfoy, he feels a bit light-headed. Maybe he should have eaten something after all, because he’s forgetting that it’s Malfoy who’s got the power, that Malfoy is the enemy. That can’t be good.

‘Actually yes,’ Malfoy answers. He has made a beeline towards the potions shelf, and is carefully examining the few drops left at the bottom of one of the potion bottles. ‘Do you have muscle aches?’ Malfoy asks, and Harry takes a second to realise Malfoy’s not talking to the bottle.

‘Well, I’ve got to bend a lot of muscles, in this line of work,’ Harry says with a leer that is completely lost on Malfoy. Malfoy is still observing the same bottle closely and has even taken out his wand to cast a thin grey mist inside it.

‘Any memory losses?’ Malfoy asks, finally turning towards Harry again. He’s got the empty bottle clutched in one hand, his wand in the other, and a look so intent Harry can’t help answering truthfully.

‘Some things are a bit fuzzy sometimes. But it’s not…’ Harry tails off. Malfoy’s face is suddenly inches from his and Harry doesn’t want the same thing as yesterday happening.

‘Your eyes are bloodshot,’ Malfoy states calmly. ‘You’re not to take this potion anymore.’

Harry wants to protest. How is he going to get it up—let alone keep it up—without the potion? He can’t do without it. Yesterday was a fluke, and he can think of at least two regulars whose anger he doesn’t want to face if he presents himself to them with a limp cock. Things are hard enough as it is, he doesn’t need Malfoy to complicate things even more. Jugson might have been a filthy bastard who liked to choke him while he pounded his arse, but at least he didn’t try to fuck him up for the clients.

Harry doesn’t protest though, because Malfoy’s wand is too close for comfort and Harry isn’t foolish like he once was. And Malfoy’s still talking: ‘I’m going to brew you one myself. One without all the undesirable side-effects, hopefully. Are you allergic to lizard scales?’

Harry thinks he might be hallucinating. The bottle has disappeared somewhere in Malfoy’s huge cloak and Malfoy isn’t so close anymore. He’s fiddling with his wand and, after examining Harry so closely, he doesn’t seem to want to look at him anymore. 

‘I’ll take that as a no,’ Malfoy says with finality, before heading towards his chair. He still doesn’t sit though, and looks more and more uncomfortable. Harry glances at his own dick, but it’s as soft as it can be so that’s not what is making Malfoy so damn twitchy.

With both hands clasping his wand and his gaze fixing a spot somewhere above Harry’s right shoulder, Malfoy finally spits it out. ‘The Dark Lord thinks you don’t make as much money as you could. It means, from now on, you’re only getting the clients willing to pay the highest prices.’

Harry knows what this means. The highest paying clients don’t want just a hole to pump their cock in. They want rough, they want humiliating. They want the Chosen One at their complete mercy. With the high turnover of johns and janes wanting Harry Potter on his knees, this kind of client used to come once or twice a week at most. Now it’s going to be all the time.

Malfoy clears his throat. It almost feels like he wants to say he’s sorry, but chokes on it.

Malfoy leaves the room without one glance at the gold on the table. Harry doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry.

~o~

The next day isn’t the worst day Harry’s spent in the brothel. His first days there were much worse. Back then, he was still reeling from what was happening in the outside world, from Voldemort not being dead after all, from the certainty that it would be impossible to ever find the new Horcruxes, from half of the friends he had left dying, from not knowing what had happened to the other half… They were worse because Harry didn’t know what to expect, didn’t know how to take it yet. He didn’t know how to control his body yet, how to control anything. He didn’t know how not to cry.

The next day isn’t the worst day but it’s pretty close.

There are things that make it better than it could be, though.

When Harry wakes up, the potions on the shelf are not the same electric blue they’ve always been, but a softer hue of aqua blue. Harry uncorks one curiously and the smell is less vile too, kind of a neutral scent. Harry doesn’t know if he can trust Malfoy to have truly improved the potion, but at least it won’t taste like shit anymore. It won’t be on an empty stomach either, because there is an actual breakfast waiting for him in the kitchen. Lavender is at her usual spot at the table and she just shrugs when Harry raises an inquisitive eyebrow at her.

There are more people there than usual, and it almost feels like a Sunday brunch in a very dysfunctional family. Leonora is munching on toast in her negligée and Hydrangea is gulping hot cocoa from a large mug with much more gusto than her small frame would let one guess she could manage. André is sulking in a corner, like he always seems to be, but he’s got a mug of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and even if Harry hates the smell, he can’t help be pleasantly surprised that there is no embargo on the smokes anymore. There’s Azalea and Marina giggling at a corner of the table and Harry has real difficulties believing this is all real. The brothel has never been anything else than gloomy and morose; Harry feels completely out of place. There’s got to be a trick. Nothing can be this good without there being a price.

He sits down and eats his eggs, sausages and tomatoes; if a price has to be paid ultimately, then he might as well deserve it.

The price is the first client of the day, who is more turned on by beating Harry up than anything else.

Harry doesn’t know if the new potion reduces muscle aches because every part of his body hurts; he doesn’t know if it keeps his eyes from being bloodshot, because he can barely see through the bruises on his face. The potion doesn’t heighten his senses as the other one used to, though. His arsehole is pounded mercilessly and his thighs hurt from being stretched so far, but each slap to his cock, each punch to his face, each kick to his ribs is less sharp than it could have been, the pain is still there, still as strong, but it seems to be easier to bear.

The client is strong and in his mid-forties, and it seems he’s had experience in hand-to-hand combat, because when he pins Harry down to lash out at his arse, there’s not one muscle Harry can move, and in the whole time he’s been a whore, he’s never felt so helpless. His eyes sting, and he knows that if he were still able to cry, he would soak the mattress with his tears.

Despite the hate in the client’s eyes during the whole session, he does leave a Galleon on the pile Harry didn’t put away yesterday. It makes Harry so angry, he can almost feel a tendril of magic burning up inside his chest.

There’s nothing Harry can do though, not with his anger, nor his magic. He gets up from the bed and stacks the gold next to the potions on the shelf, then goes to the sink in the corner and tries to get as clean as he can before the next client arrives.

The next client is not an improvement.

It’s an older man. Sixty-five, maybe seventy years old. He’s short and skinny, with bony hands and slicked back white hair, and he seems to take it as a personal offense that Harry is not “presentable” for him. He lacks the physical strength to neutralise Harry, but not the magical means.

The client ties Harry to the bed posts with invisible ropes he’s fished out of his cloak pockets, and proceeds to go on and on about how Harry’s been a bad boy and doesn’t deserve him. He tells Harry not to ever go play in the mud again, and that no one will ever love him anyway. He undresses and straddles Harry’s stomach but touches neither Harry’s cock nor his arse. He spits on Harry’s chest and Harry’s face and forces Harry to tell him how much he likes it, how much he deserves it. He wanks over Harry’s face and makes Harry moan for it. After he comes, puts his clothes back on and leaves gold on the table, he doesn’t untie Harry.

Harry thinks about how nice things were at breakfast and how better than usual everyone looked, and the only reprieve he gets from the shame and the self-loathing and the hopelessness is the relief that it’s him who gets the worst clients, and none of the others. He still wants to throw up though.

The next client doesn’t untie him and is content just to fuck him as hard as he can. He doesn’t seem to mind the awkward position or Harry’s unresponsiveness. He doesn’t give Harry his potion and doesn’t even seem to notice Harry’s limp cock. He obviously doesn’t give a fuck about the spit and come and blood dirtying Harry’s face. He does untie him afterwards, though.

~o~

Harry doesn’t feel like sleeping during his lunch break. He’s not hungry but he needs to leave this bedroom, so he ends up in the kitchen. It’s not as crowded as it was for breakfast, but there is still hot food on the stove. The smell is nice and oddly manages to settle Harry’s stomach a bit, but he can’t fathom swallowing anything else than large quantities of water for now.

He’s on his fourth glass and halfway through his break when Lavender shows up, her makeup bag firmly clutched between her hands.

She sits down, and after one glance at Harry, beckons for him to sit next to her. Harry does and from up close, even someone with as bad eyesight as his can see blue and red marks through Lavender’s fading foundation.

‘Why do you always put on your makeup in the kitchen?’ Harry asks as she applies some kind of balm around his eyes.

‘Better light,’ Lavender answers simply. Harry wants to nod, but Lavender’s fingers are keeping his chin still. ‘Don’t move your face,’ she says sternly. ‘I need to cover the wounds, not create new ones.’ She dabs purposefully at his cheekbones with a powder-covered brush and Harry decides not to speak anymore.

When she’s finished—quicker than Harry would have expected—she offers him a jar of balm with a knowing look. Harry feels a bit like he’s naked, and it’s weird, because meals are the only parts of the day when he’s actually wearing clothes. ‘This one is for the body,’ she says, ‘but you can also use it on your face if you get new bruises. If you don’t get too many new injuries, it all should hold for the rest of the day.’

Harry looks at her face again and her fading makeup. ‘Are you sure?’ Lavender seems to be redoing her own makeup every few hours. ‘You—’

‘It’s different when you get the same injuries over and over again. Those tend to stick better.’ Her eyes are sad but she does smile. It still surprises Harry sometimes, how strong Lavender can be.

‘Thanks.’ Harry wants to say more but there’s nothing else he can think of. He gets up. His break is almost over and he wants to take care of his other bruises before the next client arrives.

‘Be careful, Harry,’ Lavender says in lieu of goodbye.

~o~

The remaining clients are not better than the first ones, but they’re not worse either, and Harry is slowly getting used to it. It feels a bit like it felt the first days at the brothel, and if Harry survived those, he thinks he can survive anything. The balm Lavender gave him is useful and he’s getting better at applying it too.

When the last client leaves and Malfoy comes in, Harry doesn’t even tense in the automatic recoil Jugson used to incite. Even the shit Jugson put him through would have been a reprieve after a day like this one.

There is a flash of surprise—maybe even horror—on Malfoy’s face when his eyes fall on Harry, but he doesn’t comment either on Harry’s bloody state nor on the balm he’s busy applying carefully on his crotch. The potions, like yesterday, seem to concentrate his interest.

‘I can try for a brew that would lessen any pain you’re experiencing, but I’m afraid I can’t make it completely disappear without it having a negative effect on the main purpose of the potion,’ Malfoy says as he walks to the shelf and pockets the one remaining potion. Harry hates how he manages to behave more like a potion-maker than the pimp he is, but he envies it too. It looks like a hell of a coping mechanism.

Malfoy fidgets a bit with the empty bottles before Vanishing them, and Harry thinks his head has turned minutely towards the gold stacked on the shelf.

‘I can provide you with one of the spare chests lying around my office if you need a better place to keep your Galleons.’

Harry can’t help snorting at the suggestion. ‘If Voldemort is so hung up on his money that I’ve got to open my legs for all of Britain’s psychos, I don’t know why I even get to keep the bloody tips at all.’

‘This gold is not the Dark Lord’s. He already benefits from your increased rates; he doesn’t need this in addition. I couldn’t care less how much he’s got in his coffers. As long as the accounts are clean, I stay alive. That is all that matters to me, and I certainly don’t need the extra gold myself. You’ve earned it, you should make the most of it.’

Harry doesn’t want the money. He hates the money. The money reminds him that he’s not a slave, that he does not belong to someone else, and that, even if he can’t exactly _leave_ , it is all his choice. The money makes him hate himself more than any client ever can.

He doesn’t tell Malfoy that. He says, ‘And what the hell do you want me to do with these tips? I can’t leave this room outside of mealtimes, and I certainly can’t go for a stroll down Diagon Alley. So unless one of your next great improvements after breakfast and lunch is an Owlery, I don’t really see what I’d do with it. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly have a retirement plan.’

Harry’s outburst seems to shut Malfoy up momentarily, and there’s even something akin to wonder on his face. It doesn’t last long enough for Harry to be sure, though. ‘I can offer to buy things in your stead,’ Malfoy says, as calm as ever. ‘If you trust me enough to do so, of course. I can think of at least a few ointments you could spend money on that would help with your bruises more efficiently than this one does.’

Malfoy’s expression is neutral, but Harry can’t shake the disparaging comment on the balm Lavender gave him. Malfoy may not be as bad as today’s clients, or even Jugson, but he’s still an arsehole. He can play at being a hero in shining armour as much as he wants, he’s still the enemy, and even if Lavender’s balm is not as fancy as whatever Malfoy wipes his ass with, Harry would choose it anytime.

Harry’s glare is enough to make Malfoy retreat towards the door. ‘If you really want to make yourself feel better about your job, Malfoy,’ Harry says as Malfoy’s hand lands on the doorknob, ‘do something about the arsehole client who’s beating Lavender up every day. I’m sure he’s not paying the _increased rates_.’

Malfoy looks at him then, really looks. Not like clients look at him, not like Jugson used to look at him. Not even like Lavender or the others do. ‘How can you still be so _fierce_ even after everything you’ve gone through for so long?’ And there it is again: wonder. It is quite unsettling.

‘I guess it must be you who brings it out, Malfoy,’ Harry means it snidely, almost spits it out. He wants the statement if not to hurt, at least to bother. Malfoy seems to take it as a compliment, though. The wanker even smiles.

~o~

The next morning, the shade of the potions has changed again. Harry hopes to fuck Malfoy didn’t screw with them too much, because loathe as he is to admit it, yesterday’s brew was pretty good.

Breakfast is the same as the day before. André and Azalea are not there, but there’s Zaniah, and she looks better-fed than Harry’s seen her in a while. He wants to give Lavender her balm back, but she just rolls her eyes at him and continues powdering her nose. He puts the jar back in his pocket and gets back to his beans.

The clients are as bad as yesterday too, but Harry feels like he can stomach everything they put him through better. He doesn’t want to give credit to the potion because he’s a stubborn bastard, but, whether he admits it to himself or not, the agony is way more bearable than he knows it should be. The humiliation and the emotional scars are still there though, and as damaging as ever now that he no longer has the physical pain to take his mind off of them. His memory is also better than it’s been in months and Harry can’t be thankful for that.

He manages to eat at lunch, but he’s quickly full. Marina is the only other one in the kitchen, chattering at him about one of her clients wanting her to dye her hair green. Her voice is refreshing rather than annoying and Harry is about to ask her to help him with his balm when she suddenly gapes, her eyes widening. Harry turns his head in the direction she’s staring. There’s Lavender, in her usual dressing gown, her face white and her limbs trembling.

‘Lav’?’ Harry’s by her side in a second. ‘What’s wrong? Lav’, is it the arsehole? What’s he done to you now?’ He accompanies her to take a seat, but it’s only once Marina has slid a cup of tea in front of her that she talks.

‘He hasn’t come,’ Lavender says softly, disbelievingly. ‘He _always_ comes before lunch break, he—’ Harry doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and after a couple of sips at her tea she’s not trembling anymore. There’s even something about her, something in her eyes that shines brighter than usual. ‘Maybe he’s dead!’ She exclaims unexpectedly, and it hits Harry that she’s actually smiling.

‘Is it the arsehole?’ Marina asks, way more level-headed than Harry feels. ‘The arsehole client who beats you up is dead?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lavender answers, a hand gripping Marina’s. ‘He hasn’t come today and he always, _always_ comes. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but…’

Harry thinks about what he told Malfoy yesterday, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up either. He doesn’t want anyone to get their hopes up in a place as shitty as this brothel, but it seems to be the only thing Malfoy can do. It must be some kind of master plan he has, so that he can control them even better, so that he can make them do anything, and willingly.

‘I’m happy for you, Lav’,’ Harry tells her gently, a hand on her face to make sure she’s listening. ‘But you don’t know if he’s coming back or who’s coming in his place. Don’t let your guard down.’

She nods firmly, her jaw set. Harry didn’t have to tell her that really, she’s not stupid, she _knows_. But if he were in her place he’d need to hear it from someone he trusts, so that’s just what he did. They exchange a look and a smile, and Harry goes back to the rest of his day.

~o~

Harry doesn’t remember the last time he felt strong enough at the end of the day to have dinner. He thinks he had once; he’d even put on real clothes, not his usual pyjamas. The only occasion Harry ever wears actual clothes nowadays is when a client wants to role-play some sordid story where they were the one to defeat the Saviour of the Wizarding World. (The sad thing is: nobody defeated the Saviour of the Wizarding World, he did it to himself.)

Harry can’t do anything tonight. He hurts too much to sleep, but the few steps towards the balm on the shelf feel like they’d kill him.

Malfoy finds him trying to lie on his side, but the large contusion on his hip is too painful for that.

‘You’re a fucking idiot, Potter,’ Malfoy says scornfully. The insult is almost comforting. There’s a familiarity in Malfoy hating him instead of trying to bloody help him. But then Malfoy is getting out of his cloak, and Harry’s wrong-footed all over again. Despite Harry’s hard-on that first night, Harry has never gotten any impression Draco would be interested in taking advantage of his situation the way Jugson used to.

Malfoy’s cloak is carefully folded and set on the chair, and Harry is momentary surprised to discover he’s wearing a crisp white Muggle shirt underneath. Malfoy’s unbuttoning his cuffs now, but he’s not taking the shirt off. He’s rolling up his sleeves as if he’s about to tackle a very hard task. Dread nests itself in Harry’s guts the way it never does with clients, and he can’t explain it.

It’s only when he’s steadily resting on his elbows again that Harry notices Draco’s holding a jar similar to Lavender’s balm in his hand, but with fancier packaging.

‘I told you I didn’t want you to buy anything for me. I’m not paying you anything.’

‘I can’t make you buy ointment for your wound, but you can’t keep me from brewing it for you,’ Malfoy says, his voice sharp in the no-nonsense tone Harry has always associated with McGonagall. ‘Now lie down on your stomach and let me heal your numerous injuries before you die from gangrene or whatever.’

Harry complies but glares first for good measure. ‘You’re keeping your goods sellable, is that it?’ Harry asks because he likes convincing himself that it’s about the job better than considering Malfoy’s whole helping-people shtick genuine. He feels a little less like he’s been manipulated this way.

Malfoy stays silent. Harry feels the mattress dip where Malfoy sits, and then there is a cold substance on his back and even colder hands massaging it into tender skin. It feels good. Not only because he can feel his skin healing slowly, but also just the feeling of another human being’s touch. Someone who isn’t greedy, not demanding for more, not trying to hurt. The touch feels devoid of any expectation, and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever felt this good. Or maybe it just makes a harsh contrast with his workday.

There’s a voice inside his head telling him this is Malfoy’s plan: making Harry endure the worst then comforting him to make him the most pliable, but it just feels too good for Harry to listen.

Malfoy’s hands are not cold anymore, they’re warm and soft and when they slightly push at Harry’s shoulder for him to turn over, it doesn’t even occur to him not to. Malfoy applies the ointment on Harry’s face and Harry feels safe enough to close his eyes. It should scare him, how fast he lets Malfoy take over, but there’s something finally loosening deep inside and he just gives in to the need to let go.

When he feels his cock filling up, it’s not even a surprise. Harry opens his eyes to Malfoy staring uncertainly at him. His tongue peaks out to moisten his bottom lip briefly. If Malfoy can make Harry feel as good with his cock as he does with his hands, Harry doesn’t care about hating himself in the morning.

‘You can take it if you want it,’ Harry whispers with a small smile. He knows how to be enticing; it’s his job. He hears Malfoy’s breath catch.

‘Are you—’ Malfoy starts, but he seems to have troubles getting words out. He gulps and tries again, ‘You know this isn’t about…this is just about _us_ , right? About you and me and not this place, nor…you know this, right?’ There is so much weight in Malfoy’s words, Harry knows his answer is going to be important.

There also is something strangely vulnerable in Malfoy’s stance when it should be the other way around, and it helps to infuse Harry’s next words with absolute certainty. ‘I know, Malfoy. And I want it too, I really do.’

This seems to be enough for Malfoy. He nods resolutely, and next thing Harry knows, Malfoy is lifting himself up the bed so that his face is level with Harry’s. He’s got one knee on either side of Harry’s hips and his hands are kneading Harry’s chest almost absently, sending jolts of pleasure each time his thumbs graze at Harry’s nipples. Malfoy’s eyes are wide and impossibly grey, and seemingly entranced with Harry’s face.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ Malfoy says so quietly, Harry isn’t sure he heard right. He knows he can’t be beautiful, not after everything he’s gone through in this exact bed. He knows it’s something clients say because their idea of beauty is distorted. But when Malfoy says it, with this look on his face…Harry almost believes it.

Malfoy’s hands are still _everywhere_ , and still toe-curling in their skill, but they’re soon relegated to the back seat by Malfoy’s mouth on his neck, his ear and his collarbone. It’s hot and moist and so fucking intent, if Harry wasn’t overwhelmed by it, he’d think of taking notes for his next client. What Malfoy’s doing to him, though… it’s so far removed from whatever Harry’s ever experienced with clients, he can’t even fathom how they’re supposed to take place in the same realm.

And then Malfoy’s kissing him.

Harry didn’t know enough about prostitution when he first arrived at the brothel to implement any no-kissing rule. Most clients aren’t interested in kissing him anyway, and the ones who are seem to treat it more as stabbing Harry’s mouth with their tongue in a prelude to doing it with their cock. Malfoy kisses him like it means something. It shouldn’t. It’s only moist parts of the human body meeting each other; it’s strong muscles and sensitive nerve endings. The human mouth doesn’t hold any part of the soul, but when Malfoy kisses him, Harry could believe it does.

Malfoy’s tongue is agile and gentle, his teeth teasing and playful, his lips sweet and suave. Harry’s never experienced anything so erotic yet pure at the same time. And then those hands are there again. Those hands. Touching Harry everywhere, caressing him, making him believe he deserves it. They’re somehow frantic and patient at the same time, and Harry doesn’t know if he wants them to get at his cock already or go on roaming every inch of his body for ever and ever.

Harry has his hands burrowed in Malfoy’s fine hair and doesn’t feel like he’ll ever be able to let go. But then he does because Malfoy’s not pressed close against him anymore. He’s gone to scoop some more ointment in his hand and is back almost immediately, but Harry didn’t know it was possible to miss someone so much for such a short time.

Malfoy’s hand grips Harry’s cock firmly; its strokes slow and tortuous, and Harry _wants_. He wants so much, and he feels something ignite inside him with the slow force of a brewing storm.

Harry can’t stand it anymore. ‘Go faster, you son of a bitch,’ he wants to demand, but whines instead. ‘Stop your bullshit and get your cock in me.’

Malfoy lets out a short, loud laugh, his breath warm and rich against Harry’s skin—almost as good as his hand on Harry’s cock—and, after getting rid of his shirt and trousers with an infuriating smirk on his lips, he complies. 

There’s still ointment coating Malfoy’s fingers, when he slides one, then two in Harry’s arse. They move in and out purposefully and it’s too much—too careful, too tender, too loving—and too little at the same time. Harry doesn’t want it to be more than just sex; he knows he couldn’t cope with something like that at the beginning of another workday.

Then, with an all-encompassing kiss, Malfoy starts fucking Harry in earnest. It’s hard and fast and perfect, and Harry feels like he’s burning from the inside out. This is what sex should always feel like.

Malfoy’s cock in his arse changes angles frequently. Malfoy is constantly adjusting to Harry’s moans, bringing him so close, so _close_ , too many times. Harry wraps his limbs around Malfoy and tries to get some leverage, tries in vain to give as good as he gets, not because he has to, but because he _wants_ to. It’s too difficult to control anything when every movement of Malfoy’s body, every shift of his hips, brings him closer and closer to the edge.

Malfoy is relentless and stops kissing him only to lick and nip and suck at his neck, at his jaw, at his collarbones. Harry feels more than wanted, he feels _worshipped_. It’s so hard to believe he can still invoke this in anyone, but so elating to know too. Harry needs to come soon, because he doesn’t think he can stand so much pleasure any longer without exploding. He brings his hand to his cock and starts stroking himself to the rhythm of Malfoy burying himself inside him over and over again.

And then, almost by surprise, he comes. He comes so hard he sees stars and it’s nearly painful, but it’s also liberating. Like this, without any potion incentive, it almost feels like the first time.

~o~

Harry doesn’t hate himself in the morning, and he’s the first to be surprised about it. He’s surprised when they have sex again the next day but he still doesn’t hate himself. The third and fourth time, he doesn’t question it anymore.

Sleeping with one’s pimp doesn’t make a whore’s job easier. Not when the brothel belongs to Voldemort and Harry is seemingly the highest-profit whore there. His clients are still the worst arseholes in Wizarding Britain and every workday still feels like hell, but it doesn’t put him off sex like it would any normal person. Instead, it makes him crave Malfoy’s touch even more.

There’s still a part of Harry that’s convinced it’s all Malfoy’s dastardly plot to have Harry at his complete mercy. But dastardly plot or no, it still makes him feel better than he’s ever felt, and what’s his alternative anyway? He’s taken the decision to spend the time waiting for the other shoe to drop as pleasurably as possible. And, right now, he can’t think of anything more pleasurable than Malfoy’s mouth on his cock.

Malfoy’s sucking Harry’s head in and his fingers are teasing at his balls, and the sensation is absolutely exquisite. His tongue is pressing lightly against Harry’s slit and the best part might be how Malfoy seems to genuinely enjoy it. There are sounds akin to moaning coming from his throat, and his hips are grinding against the mattress in rhythm with his tongue. He looks so wanton, it should be ridiculous, but all it does is make Harry even harder. Being a whore convinced Harry sex was about power, but when he’s with Malfoy, he’s not so sure anymore.

Harry tries very hard not to buck his hips and thrust right into Malfoy’s mouth. He’s got no reason not to do it other than the fact that he always finds it unpleasant when he’s the one with a cock in his mouth and the client gives no warning. That’s why he’s surprised when Malfoy reaches for Harry’s hands and brings them to grip his head firmly, relaxing his mouth around his cock and making him understand clearly what he’s expecting.

With a groan coming from deep inside his chest, Harry lets go. He fucks Malfoy’s mouth and Malfoy likes it. He moans and tugs at his own cock and takes Harry’s in his throat absolutely effortlessly. Just before he comes, Harry has the odd thought that Lavender was right and that Malfoy really would make a lot of money working here.

It’s not long after that, his mouth still around Harry’s softening cock, that Malfoy spills on the mattress with a satisfied sigh. Harry feels boneless and contented and doesn’t have the strength to protest when Malfoy shifts up the bed and positions himself in something that would decidedly look like a cuddle. Malfoy is smiling suggestively when he enters Harry’s field of vision and Harry can’t help a snort.

‘You are actually more of a slut than any of us, aren’t you?’

‘You seem to have enjoyed yourself as much as I did, if the back of my throat is to be believed,’ Malfoy speaks as matter-of-factly as someone looking so debauched can, and Harry can’t help laughing in earnest. Malfoy shuts him up with a kiss, and it’s when Harry surrenders to it completely that he realises that there might be something more than sex between them after all. The thought scares him less than it should.

‘Do you know if Leonora is tolerating her new contraceptive potion better than the last one?’ Malfoy asks later as he’s buttoning his shirt. ‘It’s been two days since I’ve replaced some of the rosebush roots with thyme, but she hasn’t given me any feedback yet.’

Harry straightens up and raises his head from his sprawled position to frown at him. It keeps startling him how genuine Malfoy seems to be about these things. ‘You actually care about her, don’t you? About all of us?’

Malfoy stops putting on his sock midway through to look up at Harry, and he looks a bit silly in this position, but his expression is still serious. ‘What made you think I didn’t?’

‘I don’t know, I thought maybe you did all this crap just to get into my pants,’ Harry says lightly but he can feel there’s a tension in the air that shouldn’t be there.

‘I care about what happens to people here; it’s my job,’ Malfoy answers flatly.

‘It didn’t seem to be Jugson’s job,’ Harry can’t help but prod.

‘And look what happened to him.’

~o~

They don’t fuck every day. Even if Harry wanted to, he simply couldn’t. Most days he’s too drained—physically and emotionally—and when Malfoy comes in his room to replenish his potions, he just sleeps. Sometimes they simply talk, Malfoy on his hard-back chair and Harry lying naked on his bed. Other times Malfoy joins him on the bed and just holds him; Harry doesn’t like admitting how much he likes those times. The times Malfoy helps him apply his ointment generally coincide with the times they screw like their lives depended on it.

But, more and more, Harry can sense something shifting between them, and he knows his clients are only as bearable as they are because he knows Malfoy is going to be there at the end of the day. He likes hiding behind the idea that it’s just Malfoy doing his job; it feels safest. Harry thinks Malfoy feels the same, but he’s never been so unsure about anything.

Today, Malfoy’s putting ointment on Harry’s back, and the large gash there is too deep and too painful for Malfoy’s careful administration to be anything near erotic.

‘Maybe if I raised this bastard’s rate, he would quit it.’ Malfoy’s voice is tight and Harry can tell he’s gritting his teeth.

‘I’d rather it was me than one of the girls or, god forbid, André. The prat couldn’t last one session with this kind of client,’ Harry says dismissively. As if Malfoy could get rid of any of these psycho clients anyway.

‘You bloody Gryffindor,’ Malfoy hisses, and his next dab at Harry’s gash smarts more than it should. ‘Stop being so fucking noble. You don’t have to try and save everyone all the time. Especially not in here. Don’t you think you already suffer enough as it is?’

‘I’m _not_ trying to save anyone anymore,’ Harry hopes he says as forcefully as he feels it. ‘If I were, I wouldn’t have stuck myself in this hell. I would be out there, fighting, and trying to find a way to get rid of Voldemort. I’m no Gryffindor anymore. I’m a bloody coward.’ Malfoy’s hand slows down on his back. Harry can already feel the pity about to spout from Malfoy’s mouth, and he hates it, so he adds, ‘And you can bloody talk. You’re the one who’s playing the hero and helping the damsel in distress around here. And you can stow the “it’s my job” crap, I’ve heard it all before and I still don’t believe it.’

‘All right,’ Malfoy says steadfastly, and Harry hears the ointment jar click shut. There’s something shifting in the atmosphere around them. ‘It’s true that my motivations go beyond working ethics.’ Harry turns towards Malfoy with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, but doesn’t manage to relax the tension. ‘I certainly didn’t end up with this job as a favour from the Dark Lord.’

Harry doesn’t like it when Malfoy says “the Dark Lord” to speak of Voldemort, but it’s a good thing he does. It reminds Harry of what they’re supposed to be to each other, reminds Harry to keep his guard up. Most of the time, he’s afraid it’s too late for that.

‘It was either offing Jugson and taking his job, or ending up one of the whores.’ Malfoy’s voice is sombre, and Harry feels like doing something stupid like taking his hand in his.

‘So what? You’re bettering our conditions in case Voldemort changes his mind after all?’

Malfoy nods. ‘Very selfish, isn’t it? It shouldn’t really surprise you.’ There’s a wry smile on Malfoy’s lips and Harry kind of wants to kiss it.

‘What the hell have you done to deserve ending up here with our lot?’ It didn’t matter how many times Harry had thought Malfoy would be good at this job, there was no doubt in his mind that Malfoy wouldn’t last a week in his place.

‘I was a very poor example of a Death Eater, if you must know. Living in the same house as the Dark Lord was somewhat taxing, and adding in my father’s failings, I was judged lacking at best. It’s less about what I’ve done than about what I have been unable to do.’

Malfoy doesn’t say anything else, and Harry has nothing to say either. Malfoy grabs the ointment jar and resumes attending to that day’s brand of abuse.

After they’ve both been silent for a little while, Malfoy clears his throat and says, ‘So, I’ve told you my story. Am I allowed to ask about yours? I’m sure I can’t be the only one curious about how the Boy Who Lived ended up here.’

Harry has no desire to delve into that. He’s never told anybody and can’t even think about the events that led him here without his stomach churning. He’s going to try though. He feels like Malfoy has earned it.

‘I…’ he tries. His throat has never felt this dry. ‘When Voldemort came back…that last time. When we discovered he’d made another Horcrux before I killed him—before I _thought_ I’d killed him—I went…I thought the Elder Wand would work again—I thought…But there were too many new Horcruxes already and I found myself facing him with no…I couldn’t do anything against him…’

Malfoy has to know this story, there is no way the Death Eaters have been kept in the dark about this final confrontation the way Harry knows his side has been.

‘I was at his mercy and he gave me a choice. The same way he gave you one, I guess. Either he’d kill me or I’d work for him here. I didn’t sacrifice myself, I didn’t have the courage to do what I’d already done. I’m here because I’m too much of a coward to die again. I deserve everything I get here.’ Harry has trouble breathing but there’s Malfoy’s hand, sure and strong on his shoulder, and he feels like maybe he could be okay.

‘What use would you have been to anybody dead? At least in here you knew you had a chance to someday break out and fight again.’

On some level, Harry knows that’s exactly how he’d reasoned at the time, but with every new day in the brothel—every new client making him feel more worthless than the last, he’s managed to convince himself that the choice he’d made was the wrong one. This feeling remains, but he likes that there is still someone who believes in him, even if he himself doesn’t anymore.

~o~

Malfoy can say whatever he wants about _why_ he’s improving things at the brothel, but the fact is: things improve a lot. Apart from Harry’s clients, which are out of Malfoy’s control, but for which he apologises frequently and quite creatively anyway, everything else goes better and better for everyone. On the pretext of saving gold on healing potions, Malfoy controls and filters the clients to minimize the amount of violent arseholes. The food gets better and better too, and, during his end-of-days rounds, Malfoy gets into the habit of bringing sandwiches to the ones who didn’t go to dinner.

Some of them—not Harry, of course, never Harry—even get to go out once or twice a week to do some shopping. Malfoy even buys an owl for the brothel. The girls seem cheerier than they’ve ever been, and Harry has even seen a smile grace André’s lips once or twice.

Everyone’s feeling safer and happier, and even Harry, whose clients still beat and humiliate and abuse him every day, gets to have Malfoy in his bed frequently enough to feel better-off than he had a few weeks before. And maybe, _maybe_ , he’s ready to admit that it’s not only about what they do in bed anymore (if it ever was).

Today’s not been such a bad day. The verbal humiliation has been kept to a minimum, and none of the blows he’s weathered during the day have drawn out any blood. He even feels optimistic for his capacity to eat the sandwich Malfoy will bring him later. The last client of the day is going to be a new one though, so he tries not to put the cart before the horse.

The client almost stumbles in, a few minutes late. He closes the door behind him hurriedly, and Harry can see the shine of his sweaty forehead from his vantage point on the bed. The client turns towards Harry and looks away, his face going redder than anything Harry’s seen since—

‘Ron?’ His hair is too brown, his nose a little too flat, and the hair of his overgrown beard too curly, but it has to be him. It’s been years, but there’s no way Harry wouldn’t recognise his best friend. Especially with such a weak glamour. It’s a wonder Malfoy hasn’t spotted Ron himself. Or maybe working on potions and food preparations has made him less alert about the weirdoes who comprise Harry’s clients.

The client doesn’t deny anything though. He’s hiding his eyes with his hands now, and the vermillion of his ears is just as Harry remembers. ‘Harry, you’re naked,’ Ron—yes, it definitely _is_ Ron—almost whimpers. ‘And your…I mean, it’s…’

Harry breathes out a laugh and pulls a sheet around his waist as efficiently as he can manage. ‘You can look, now. Although there’s nothing I can do about my erection that wouldn’t make you even more uncomfortable. I’m afraid the potion can’t be untaken.’

Once the shock of seeing Ron again has dissipated, Harry feels absolutely exhilarated. It’s Ron. Ron is here and alive, and apparently healthy enough. It’s more than Harry’s ever dared to hope.

‘What the fuck are you doing here? Please tell me you weren’t looking for dick.’

‘Of _course_ not!’ Ron cries, absolutely horrified. It makes Harry want to laugh very much, but suddenly reality comes crashing down on him, and he realises that this is not the Gryffindor common room and Ron isn’t disguised ridiculously just for them to have a good laugh. This is a brothel owned by Voldemort and Ron could—should—have been dead or worse. Every laugh they’re having could be alerting someone of something, and even if Harry is quite sure Malfoy wouldn’t do anything, there are a lot of Death Eaters amongst the brothel’s clients, and saying a Weasley’s name too loud can’t be a good thing.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Ron?’ Harry asks again, but this time, his alarmed tone and his lowered voice quieten Ron’s expression at once.

‘I’m here to get you out, Harry. Now that we know where you are, there’s no way we’re letting you rot here without doing anything.’ Ron’s demeanour is serious, as serious as Harry’s seen it in the middle of battle, and it hits Harry that if years as a whore have changed Harry, whatever Ron’s been doing out there has changed him too. He has the stature of a war general, and maybe that’s what he is now.

‘Who’s “we”?’ Harry asks suspiciously, and he knows he’s stalling. This dread in his guts shouldn’t be his reaction. He should be elated, he should ask “how”, and “how soon”; he should say, “I’m ready when you are.” But instead he’s tightening the sheet around his waist and trying not to let Ron guess at the turmoil inside his mind.

‘What do you mean, “who’s we”? “We” is the order, of course! We’ve been reforming, and rallying ever since we discovered about the last Horcrux, ever since you got captured. We’ve been looking for you for so long, Harry.’ There’s the relief of an achieved quest in Ron’s voice, but also the beginning of a plea. There was no way Harry would be able to fool him anyway. ‘We need you with us, Harry. We know we can defeat Voldemort now, we know how.’

‘But the Elder Wand doesn’t work anymore,’ Harry protests, and it sounds weak to his own ears. ‘He’s invincible; he’s got too many Horcruxes.’

‘Yes, exactly,’ says Ron, with an unexpected smile that stretches towards his ears. ‘He’s got _too many Horcruxes_. He’s been killing people left and right to make them, and it’s impossible to find them all, but it’s also making him weaker by the day. The soul left in him…it’s a wonder it’s even keeping him alive anymore! He had the good idea on how to take the power, but he won’t be able to keep it long-term. His followers’ money is dwindling out quickly too—as well as his followers’ count, by the way—and he’s become even more of a paranoid bastard than he already was. It might be a bit more difficult to take down his more faithful supporters, but getting rid of Voldemort will be done easily, Harry. Once we have the Chosen One on our side again…’

‘I can’t come with you, Ron. I—I just can’t.’ Harry hears his voice crack, but he’s got to keep a strong façade. He’s got to thwart the part of him longing to go with Ron, too.

‘What? Of course you can! Listen, we’ve got a plan to get you out, and it’s failsafe. I had to leave my wand at the entrance with all of the other clients’, but it’s gonna work, I’m telling you.’ Ron is confident, and so _Ron_ , of course Harry believes him. He’s got no reason not to. He wants to leave with him, he does, but not like that. He’s got to think of the consequences. Not thinking of the consequences is what landed him in here in the first place.

‘You’ve got to understand,’ Harry explains, and he knows he sounds way too desperate already. ‘Malfoy is here, he’s our pimp…’

‘I know,’ Ron cuts him off. ‘Did you think we’d decide to break you out without doing our homework first?’

‘Do you know what is going to happen to him if I disappear on his watch?’ Harry feels like he’s grasping at straws now, and from the look on Ron’s face he knows he has every chance of being denied, but he has to ask: ‘Or maybe he could come with? He doesn’t deserve what would happen to him if I left.’

‘He’s a Death Eater, Harry,’ Ron says calmly. Harry feels like a wild animal Ron is trying to soothe. ‘ He’s made his choice…’

It’s Harry’s turn to cut him off. ‘Where’s Hermione?’ he asks.

He’s obviously taken Ron by surprise, because Ron stays silent for some time before he finally answers, his expression closed off, ‘She’s… I—We…We’re still looking for her. We don’t know if…’ His voice is shaking and it wasn’t Harry’s intention to put so much hurt in his eyes, but he has a point to make and he’s going to make it.

‘Malfoy and I, we…’ Harry doesn’t really know how to express it, he doesn’t feel ready to, but he knows he has to. ‘I can’t leave him here alone, Ron. If Voldemort discovers I’m gone he’ll be the one held responsible, and they’ll… Imagine if it was Hermione. Imagine leaving her here alone…’ He trails off, because he feels weird now, comparing Hermione with someone he can’t even refer to by his first name. It doesn’t change his decision though.

Ron looks down for a moment, pensive, and when he looks back up, his stare is harder. These are the eyes of someone who’s already had to make hard decisions and sacrifices, and who isn’t scared of making more. ‘I knew there was a chance you would be difficult about this, Harry. I didn’t want to believe it, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t come here prepared.’

Ron’s hand is grabbing at something in his pocket, and then there’s something wet landing on Harry’s face. He doesn't have time to completely process that it smells familiar before he feels himself falling asleep. His last thought before he gives in to unconsciousness is of Malfoy.

~o~

When Harry comes to, Ron’s glamour has faded, and he’s looking as pissed as when he knocked Harry down with what must have been a cutaneous sleeping potion.

‘You’re a wanker, Harry. I don’t have time for this. If we get caught because we have to lose precious time with this _prat_ , I’ll kill you myself, “The Boy Who Lived” or not.’ Ron is grumbling and Harry’s not sure he’s understood everything.

Harry’s feeling disoriented, and he realises belatedly that it’s due to his vision being clearer than it’s been in a long time. He’s got glasses on, and he doesn’t know if they’re _his_ or where the hell they come from, but the familiar weight on his nose is more than welcome in the strange situation he finds himself.

He is sitting at what looks like a weirdly professional desk in a crammed but well-kept office Harry’s never before set foot in, but whose atmosphere feels almost familiar. Ron is still mumbling about a prat, but what prat? But then there’s blond hair coming inside his field of vision, and it feels like a jolt of electricity. It’s Malfoy and they must be in Malfoy’s office, and Harry’s got no idea what’s going on here.

‘You’ve got to leave with Ron, Harry,’ Malfoy says sternly as he crouches beside him. ‘You can do so much good out there, and I don’t want you to miss this chance and have to stay in this hellhole for my sake.’

‘But they’ll kill you,’ Harry protests, and maybe it’s because of the sleeping potion, but it doesn’t sound as insistent as he wants it to. He grips Malfoy’s arm and looks him in the eyes; he tries to make him understand.

‘Or they’ll make me take your place. Who knows?’ Malfoy says softly. Harry can’t let himself imagine Malfoy taking his place. He can’t accept it. ‘I’m not as important as you are, Harry.’

‘Come with me, then,’ Harry pleads.

‘He _can’t_ come Harry,’ Ron says sadly, the exasperation from earlier vanished from his tone, sad resignation taking its place . ‘The plan is foolproof for two people, but for three…it’d get us all killed.’

‘And I can’t leave the others,’ Malfoy adds, because Harry’s been blinded by what would happen to Malfoy, but of course, the guilt of leaving Lavender and everyone else behind had to make itself known too. ‘But if you go and do something about the Dark Lord, we’ll all be free of this place soon enough. If there’s one good thing I can do in this war, let that be it. Let it be for you, Harry. I thought you were finished saving everyone all the time anyway.’

There’s a small smile on Malfoy’s face, and as good as Ron’s arguments have been, it’s only then that Harry truly believes he’s got a shot at actually defeating Voldemort. All the hope that slowly dwindled away during the last few years is suddenly back full-force, and Harry feels like he can do anything.

Harry gets out of his chair and kisses Malfoy with all his might. He doesn’t care about Ron’s grunts about never wanting to see this kind of thing and about how they should hurry the fuck up, all he cares about is Malfoy and getting that last kiss right.

‘I’ll come and get you,’ he says fiercely, and Malfoy’s got to believe him, he has to. ‘Don’t you dare get yourself killed before then.’ He smiles and Malfoy smiles, and they kiss one last time before Ron makes Harry leave.

 

It’s only when they’re out of the brothel, and definitely out of danger that Harry thinks about Ron knowing he would have to convince Harry. He thinks about Ron bringing him to Malfoy’s office, and about Malfoy being ready to be punished by Voldemort and made to work at the brothel. He thinks about the potion Ron sprayed him with and how similar it smelt to some of Malfoy’s potions. He thinks about his cloak pocket full of the exact amount of gold Harry had piled on his shelf. Harry wonders if Malfoy knew about Ron’s plan, he wonders if he helped, and if he was preparing for it all along. Harry wonders but doesn’t ask Ron.

All Harry thinks about is that he’s going to end Voldemort, and then he’s going to come back and save one last person.

~The end~

**Author's Note:**

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